


Cherries

by k45tl3



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Childhood Memories, Gen, Headcanon, Origin Story, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8835538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k45tl3/pseuds/k45tl3
Summary: Feels-y gen. fic in which each class reminisces of what cherries were to them in their past while they are all physically brought together because of them. Lots of origin headcanons; content warning for (mostly canon) dark pasts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wasn't planned out at all and I kind of just went to town on writing it, I think it's nice to have a change from ships. I also really enjoy exploring origin headcannons and being really descriptive, so this is for you if you share any of my sentiments regarding this.

“Oi, look what they sent us today!” 

It was an unusual time in the Teufort bases of TF Industries. Usually around this time of year the two teams had been transported to a base elsewhere, as to not be sitting in the desert in the middle of July, but this year no such thing had happened. Instead, they had been given a whopping 18 day furlough. 

Nobody was stupid or crazy enough to even try going anywhere in this period of time. It was _only_ 35 degrees* out. Sure, it’d get hotter in the outback in January, but even the Sniper didn’t dare leave base for extended periods of time. Everyone was just sitting around their respective bases hoping for the heat to pass by. 

Even Spy had ditched his suit, and Pyro revealed _him_ self by taking off the asbestos suit and exposing a stocky muscular torso with a bit of fat in a white undershirt. The Engineer had set up all sorts of fan systems in an attempt to ease their suffering a bit, and Medic was lying on the tile floor of the infirmary with Heavy in hopes of the cold porcelain cooling them down. Scout was stark naked, draping himself dramatically over one of the decrepit armchairs in their common room and complaining noisily about all the pain this heat was bringing him. Soldier and Demo had gotten themselves an ice bath by taking Pyro’s pool and filling it with ice from their Mann Co. Industrial Freezer. 

Any form of print entertainment, whether media such as newspapers, magazines – including pornography – or literature, was useless, conversation was scarce, and even the well known vices of some of the mercs such as alcohol and tobacco were put aside as they all suffered in the heat. 

Sniper had been sent out to get the biweekly delivery of accommodations they had gotten, and called out to his team. Nobody showed any sign of registering anything the man had said. 

“Oi, ya wankers! Look what I’ve bloody got!” 

Scout looked up, but with no interest whatsoever available on his face. 

“More for me then…” Sniper put the crate on the large table in the room that served as their dining room as well as their recreational area. 

“Wait! Are those _cherries!?_ ” Scout immediately perked up as Sniper plucked a little red fruit out of the box. 

“Right ya are, Roo.” 

Oh _boy!_ ” The Scout’s face lit up, boyish and innocent, every trace of his usual cynicism and malice gone at the sight of the summer fruits. 

“What have ya got there, pardner?” The Engineer strolled in, shirtless under his overalls and barefoot to boot, interested in what might’ve caught the Scout’s eye. “Now wouldya look at that,” he muttered after a beckoning glance from the Australian. “Those are some real nice cherries, Slim.” 

“Try one, Hardhat. They’re so frickin’ sweet, it’s _unbelievable_.” 

The Texan plucked one out of the crate with his one flesh hand after the Scout had gone for his third. 

The other mercenaries started to gather around the table, peering in curiously to find the massive amount of cherries before them, and soon there was a pile of pits growing outside the door. 

* 

Scout didn’t particularly like the summers. It meant more time with his brothers – too much time – and Boston didn’t have the most pleasant weather at that time of year. Heat in the city was worse than heat in the desert (probably, he had never been past Illinois). There was no motivation to run, to play baseball. He and some of his more _civil_ siblings would go to the library a couple blocks from home. It was one of the only places around with air conditioning and they would read comics or cause trouble or just sit there. Some other times they would go to the YMCA and spend all day in the indoor pool. It was nice, but you couldn’t spend two months between the library and the swimming pool at the Y. 

Scout loved his home of Boston, but he would do so much to visit Uncle Sean out in New Hampshire where there were rivers and bees and grass and birds and cherry trees! Here there were bricks and concrete and exhaust fumes, and the best you could get was cherry jam on your peanut butter sandwiches, and the Smucker’s stuff was nothing compared to the preserves Aunt Ella made. 

At least he had thought until the summer of his fifteenth year, when the funny French fellow that always hung around brought in a bag of fresh cherries and set them on the table before grabbing Ma by the waist and planting a kiss on her cherry-red lips. 

“Wow, where’d ya get these!? They must’ve cost a lot!” They always only had apples and watermelons around. Cherries were always marked up for some reason, and raising 8 boys wasn’t cheap. 

Boy, but were they good. Almost as good as Uncle Sean’s. Almost, but not quite. Red juice stained fingertips and white shirts blurred with movement as each boy around the table silently prayed that it wasn’t his turn to do the laundry – you had to get the stains out, or else Ma’d be mad. 

Everyone present had gotten to devouring the cherries, and soon they were all gone. All except for one. Everyone looked around at each other in silence. Ma was the first to speak. 

“None of you boys better be bickering over this cherry. Let –––––– have it, you never leave anything for him.” 

Scout was in no way his mother’s favourite – she didn’t play that game. It paid off, however, if you were quiet as the youngest one. He hesitated a little bit before shakily reaching for the last cherry, all eyes on him, and once he grabbed his prize, he flashed a grateful little smile toward Ma as everyone else scowled at him. A smile curled up on the lips of the skinny Frenchman leaning against the kitchen counter, the ever-present cloud of smoke flowing around him like the strange aureole of a not quite holy being. 

* 

It was July 17, 1947. Soldier leaned against the wall and exhaled as he looked around. It was his third summer in Europe. He missed home. It was really pretty here, but he missed the summers back in Ohio. He and his brothers would get cherry soda and go to the little pond a way’s from his mama’s house, and they and some other neighbourhood kids would spend all day there, forgetting their shoes and shirts at home and running around in the humid summer air until it got dark out, and sometimes even after that. When they got older they’d start bringing girls and staying out later and building fires, and they wouldn’t run around half naked anymore, but one thing never changed; they always had cherry soda. Not grape or orange or Pepsi-Cola, it was always cherry. He couldn’t remember when it started, but it was always what they got at Mr. Jones’ after timidly sliding a nickel over the counter. Mr. Jones would smile and say “That all, boys?” and one of them would always leave with gum or a chocolate bar gratis. 

He was too old for that now. He knew he wouldn’t have been doing that if he had stayed home. He was 22 years old! Still a boy, by many standards. Mama cried when he said he was going overseas. He didn’t come back home to tell them that they didn’t take him. He went and got a job and he worked until he had enough to fly to Poland and a little bit to send back to Mama and a little bit to live off of. If he was still at home, he’d be back with his mother and his brothers and he’d have a job and he’d be working and helping his country all the same. 

“Jane, do you know where your bottle cap has gone?” 

“It was just here, wasn’t it? 

They were collecting the tops, and for the last few days they had been disappearing, and nobody knew to where and who the culprit was, or at least not until he didn’t hear a rustling in the bushes, only to turn around and find a bushy tail trailing behind the masked bottlecap thief. 

“Jane, where ya off to?” 

“I uh, gotta pee.” He made his way to the shrubs at the edge of the small woods at the edge of their pond, and made sure to be very quiet as he followed the rustling sounds. In a hole under the roots of an ancient tree, he found a fascinating exhibit oddities. While most of it was tinfoil and nails, he found a pocket watch – still working –, a button off of a navy uniform, a safety pin, a barrette, and other such things, all in strange little piles, the organisation and categories of which he could not see sense in. Despite having found all of these things, the miscreant was nowhere to be seen. Jane grabbed a little chain and dropped a paper clip from his pocket as a trade, and set off back to his friends. He’d intentionally leave the bottle caps out now, and occasionally he’d put nicer things down for his new friend, all of which he’d see in his occasional visits to the den. 

There were no raccoons on the European continent. 

* 

Pyro mainly ate mangos and bananas as a kid. His dad was a missionary, and he spent most of his childhood in northern Mexico, where his mama was from. Cherries were a treat for him, and his grandma on his father’s side would make cherry pies when he’d spend the summers in Louisiana. He couldn’t decide if he liked the French creole food from his grandfather, the classic all-American food from his grandmother, or the Mexican food from his mama the most. 

It didn’t matter in the end, it’s been ten years since he’s had any of that food. He hasn’t been home since he set their house on fire when he was 16, and the best food he’d had since then was what Engie would cook in what he now called home working for TF Industries. 

When he’d gotten to Washington by hitchhiking and hopping trains, he was surprised by all the cherries in season. They weren’t all red and violet like the cherries he’s seen though. They were streaked through with yellow and orange before they set into pinks and reds. They reminded him of the sunsets back home, and the sight of the flame erupting as he threw the match into the patch of gasoline before running to alert his parents. 

The Rainier cherries were all he’d eat for awhile. They were cheap, and sometimes he’d steal a canvas bag full from the orchards and sleep in the nearest barn. He’d burned a few of those down as well. 

He didn’t really know why he set fire to things, why he tried to burn his house down. They’d salvaged a lot from what he could tell before he ran away, so maybe that was why he didn’t feel too guilty for it. He didn’t mind when the first blow from his father came; and then the second. And the third. And they kept coming but he was okay. He’d never forget the look in his brother’s eyes, of fear and anger. Fear and anger towards him; ‘why did you burn our perfectly happy childhood home down?’ Toward their father: ‘why are you hurting him!?’ And why isn’t he doing anything about it, right? 

“Why did you sit there and take the blows as they came? You didn’t even flinch to lift your arms, to protect yourself?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Why the _fuck_ did you do that in the first place?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Why did you go back there?” 

He had come back once. Not with the intention of showing himself, necessarily. It was better if they assumed he was dead or whatever they assumed. He just stopped by to see how life was, if his brother was doing okay, and mama and dad. Their little house came into sight, looking the same as it did before the fire. And blue eyes met his from the distance; that was all he needed. He was off again. 

“You know why. Why are you talking to yourself?” Pyro stared ahead into the glass of the diner’s front windows. It was dark out, and the neons cast a weird light on the panes. His eyes shifted focus between the cars parked outside and his own face. He didn’t see much of that anymore. Mirrors weren’t easy to come by on freight trains and in old warehouses. Sometimes he would look behind himself and find one of the few other people in the restaurant staring at him. He picked the unnaturally red cherry off the top of the fluffy whipped cream that didn’t resemble at all the creamy, fatty stuff that mama would whip up, and stared into his own eyes while absently chewing up the stem.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defense classes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these are really short, it was really hard to come up with something plausible for these fellows. Either way, I hope you like.

Cherries were not something Demo ate a lot of as a child, but there was someone he knew who did. There were wild cherry trees growing all over the place; strange, spindly trees with tiny red fruits dotting the thick, deep green leaves that clothed the dark and skinny branches of the plants. In between the green leaves were big, black ravens who picked off the berries taking them into their black beaks before flying away into the sky awaiting summer storm. 

No matter where he was in the country, they were always there, the birds like shadows behind him at all times. He felt attached to them; there was always a little bit of comfort at the sight of the creatures that are a bad omen to some, but friends to him. 

The other kids thought he was funny; who ever heard of a _black Scot?_ And an orphan at that! His mum and dad must’ve left him because he was weird-looking, right? And he was always blowing things up, and worst of all, he had an _eyepatch!_

The ravens, however didn’t mind him. He’d bring them little pieces of bread when there weren’t any cherries, and soon a few would always be around when he was outside. Other kids were put off by this, and they rarely bugged him anymore 

He tried one of the cherries they ate, but they were hard and bitter, not the type of cherry you make jams out of, and wondered why the birds seemed to enjoy eating them. 

When he was in his teenage years and his parents finally revealed themselves, he no longer had much time to watch his bird friends since he was too busy blowing things up, but he’d occasionally look out the window to see them flying through the grey skies as rain approached. 

Tavish remembered a specific day in which he wanted to go out and drink or cause trouble – he was eighteen years old then (but any such justification is unnecessary because he’d always want to drink and cause trouble, no matter what age he was) – but was confined to the indoors, messing with wiring and explosives, a pattern of work ingrained in his mind, a bottle of beer the only thing keeping him company. He stood up and walked across the room. A raven was perched on a tree outside his window, cocking his head at the sight of the man, red cherry in black beak. Maybe he wasn’t completely alone. 

* 

Fresh fruits were not something Heavy experienced much at all of until he had gone to study in Moscow before his family had gone into hiding, and after that not until he came to America. Just at the height of summer was there anything besides apples, which were around year-long due to their long-lasting nature, and young Mikhail would excitedly stroll into town multiple times in those few weeks to get as many berries and fruits as possible before the days began to shorten. He and his friends would wait in long lines to buy a small amount of cherries, but it was worth it. They were so sweet and so red and even the few they got brought them a lot of pleasure. Their colour amplified the pleasant warmth of the season, and despite fear and hard times, Mikhail enjoyed his time in university while it lasted, knowing it could be taken away at any time. He knew what his father was up to, and the intelligence that got him into college in the first place wouldn’t save him from his father’s “crimes” in rebellious groups. There was no help from the Soviet government. 

They had to go into hiding, moving around the remote Siberian mountains from whence Heavy came in the first place. There, more than winters were spent indoors, the weather refusing to relent regardless of season. The only people he ever saw were family, and everyone, especially his father, had to keep as far as possible from even the possibility of seeing anyone else; the Soviet society was strong because of those who informed and those who talked. Perhaps that was why Heavy was so soft spoken; words were only kind to him in the form of written prose, as opposed to vocalisations of any sort. Talking was betrayal. 

In the later years of their self-imposed estrangement, after his father’s death, Mikhail’s family had gone a bit farther south, in case anyone was after them and had seen a consistent trail through the north. It was spring, and there were green trees bringing them out of the gloom of perpetual winter. They were much closer now to Stalingrad, which was much farther south and much closer to the ocean. 

The place that would now be their home for the next period of time – whether long or short was not known to any of them – was a little cabin in one of the vast woods covering so much land in those parts. Blossoms bloomed on one of the trees out front of the structure, and a few months later, they began to develop into what Misha recognized to be cherries. Cherries, for his little sisters and mama, and he could have some too. It was still going to be hard, but the cherries made it a little sweeter, the joy in his sisters’ eyes as they devoured the fruits as soon as they were ripe enough like honey in the bitter tea of his experience thus far. 

Tears came into the usually stoic eyes of the massive Russian at the memory, just as they did when he found that cherry tree, and then again, when he found out that they had so many more cherries in America. * 

“Dell!” 

The Engineer took a second more at his desk before rising and heading toward the kitchen without any particular hurry. The house smelled lovely; his ma’s been baking today. A slice of pie stood on the table at Engie’s usual place, still a bit warm judging by the dew formed around it on the cold plate. A glass of milk stood by his plate. He sat down and smiled up at his mother, before taking up his fork into his hand for a bite. 

His father, Mr. Conagher Sr., strolled into the room, preoccupied by some small thing he was tinkering with in his hands. His mother sighed, but smiled right after. She always did say she wouldn’t change a thing, even if she knew what she was getting into by marrying a Conagher. He sat down as well, putting down this small mechanism on the table next to him – what was it, an engine of some sort? – and he smiled up at his wife as well. Like father, like son. 

The pie, as usual, was incredible. Ma beamed as she ate from her plate, leaning against the counter, watching her usually preoccupied husband and son scarf down the pie. Dell finished with a glaze of red running down the side of his mouth, stomach full. He didn’t even feel like moving to go back to his room and work on the blueprints for his teleporting device, which was coming along wonderfully either way. He sat there for a second, the whole family in silence – a comfortable silence, it was – before excusing himself to go out in front of the house and finding a ladder he used to climb up on the roof of their little two-storey home. 

Stargazing was his favourite _lazy_ activity, he didn’t have to think or do anything, which was not usually something that came easily to him. He sat in his usual spot and felt something hard underneath himself. A cherry pit. He would come up here with bowls of cherries and try to spit the pits over the edge of the roof. Maybe he could build a machine to propel them somehow? Hours and hours spent up here, daydreaming, a cherry stem hanging out between his lips. He should go get some cherries. He’d have to pick more, his mother used them all for the pie, but he didn’t mind it. He was obviously meant for building things; solving problems, but he was a real Texan cowboy, as well. He could ride a horse and shoot a rifle and even bake a cherry pie (his ma taught him that last one), and he had nothing against climbing trees as the sky went dark to get some of those last summer cherries to eat as he studied the heavens.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Support mercs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPS IT GOT A BIT GAY, COULDN'T HELP IT, SORRY!! Skip to first asterisk if you don't fancy that hehe, it's not dirty though.  
> Last chapter, anyway, really hope you liked, sorry it's kind of short and awkwardly written, it became kind of hard for me to wring anything out toward the end there.

“Looks like Klaus has got the hots for Kristel, am I right?” Siegfried was in his late teens and teasing like this was commonplace amidst his group of friends. Yes, Siegfried, with his beautiful black hair and his blue eyes that everyone seemed to get lost in, his white toothed conniving grin that accompanied that mischievous spark in those eyes, and that _charm_ , the one that had as many boys eyeing him as girls. Siegfried, the alpha; devilishly handsome and even more devilishly smart. Quick wit and skillful hands and _curiousity._ He was going to be a doctor, everyone knew it, but now was time for youths shenanigans. It was summertime and he didn’t have to worry about studying quite as much, and he and his friends all ambled down the road looking for trouble of the sort expected of teenagers. 

Klaus was blushing, whether because of the accuracy of Siegfried’s jab or perhaps something else that the other boy had been oblivious to was not of importance to Siegfried, as long as he remained in the position he had proudly kept thus far – superiority in a sense, or perhaps the ability to strike respect and fear into people without being overtly menacing. 

Kristel was blushing as well, but everyone knew why, except for Siegfried. Whether Klaus had the hots for her or not was of no significance. She had the hots for Siegfried, just like Anna, Brigit, Lisa, and apparently Otto too, which was of no surprise to all who were perceptive enough to notice. It didn’t bring out any teasing or anything worse as it would if it had been a crush on someone else, because everyone understood if it was Siegfried. It was known around town, after all, that he caught even the eyes of other boys. 

The group of them approached one of the houses lining the side of the road and they all stood about the door bashfully once it had been opened until Siegfried told them “not to be silly, friends. It is your house as well as mine, come in, bitte,” before ushering his friends into the place, Otto being the last having been coaxed in by a smack to the butt from Siegfried. They all sat at the bench lining the kitchen wall, Otto’s face redder than the jar of cherries Siegfried’s grandmother was giving to Emma, his sister, that was to be given to their father for his birthday. Out of the group of them, less were oblivious to Otto’s blushing than not, Siegfried amongst the few, a smile on his face. 

“Hans, do you know when Klaus will ask Kristel out?” 

“I don’t think he has the balls, dear Siegfried.” 

“Do you agree, Lisa?” 

Lisa shrugged before glancing from Otto to Kristel, both of whom sat staring at the floor, red in the face. 

After Emma took the cherries and thanked Siegfried’s grandmother, they were out again, and even with the atmosphere slightly less awkward (a term Siegfried was not familiar with), Siegfried remained among the louder, more jovial in their group 

“What is it with you today, Otto, are you alright?” A firm clasp on the shoulder startled the boy who was considering his reply. The girls were whispering and giggling, and the boys were laughing and roughhousing again. 

Otto shrugged. “I’m fine, it’s fine…” 

“Which one of you will climb that tree and bring us some cherries, boys?” said Lisa. A couple of the boys, led by the mighty Siegfried, started up the tree, making a competition of picking cherries, and once they got down with the goods the road behind them led to evidence of their whereabouts which bunches of cherry pits every few feet. 

“A cherry for Lisa, a cherry for Emma…” Siegfried rationed the cherries out to the girls as the others began to devour their own. “And which of you should get the last one?” He considered a second before dropping the cherry into the hand of Otto, who looked up with his doe eyes before the blush that had just left his face returned, now stronger. 

As their group progressed and the sun began to set, people began to leave in ones and twos as they passed their homes, and soon Siegfried was left with Otto, since Emma had gone off somewhere with Hans. 

“I suppose you should thank your grandmother for these for me,” Otto gestured, lifting the jar of cherries in his hand. 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Mhmm... Well, see ya tomorrow, or whenever…” Otto began to turn away, but was stopped when Siegfried spoke. 

“I’m not as stupid as you think I am, you know.” 

“What, I don’t think–” 

Siegfried was glad that they were standing on a grass lawn instead of a paved road, since Otto dropped the cherry jar as soon and Siegfried’s lips met his. They tasted like cherries. 

* 

“Where’ve ya been all day, Lawrence?” 

“Nowhere much, mum. Just out.” 

“You should eat something, maybe? Your father thinks you’ve been getting a bit thin, and I must say that I agree. I’ve got some leftover meat pie from dinner.” 

“I’m fine, mum.” 

“At least take this.” She handed him a piece of cherry cake, which was one of Sniper’s favourites. He smiled weakly at her, she looked worried. He knew that look. 

“I’m fine, mum.” 

She laughed. “That’s all you ever say, Lawrence.” 

She was right. It was all he ever said. He headed toward his room with the square of cake she gave him, and sat down on his bed which he seemed to hardly ever use this time of year. He looked down at his dusty boots, still on his feet, and his rifle on his lap, which his father had given him a for his fifteenth birthday. There was powdered sugar on his pants from the cake. He ate it quickly; he had been hungry. It just seemed he forgot to eat a lot of the time, was all. The sky was darkening and he figured it must be getting late. He glanced at his wristwatch, a gift from his father on his tenth birthday. 21.30. He opened the window and was about to step out, but decided to head back to the kitchen to grab a couple more pieces of cake. 

The air was warm, and he wondered whether he should go to the “bunker” or the roof of their house. The bunker was an old camper van trailer resting atop a structure of boards with all the windows put out and sand on the the thin mattress. Sniper spent almost all of his time there. He slept there and spent his days there. It was his favourite place to be and there was no one who knew it was where he’d go all day except for the weird cats that would come and curl up next to him when he was sleeping or shooting birds from the windows. The place really felt like home, he’d even gotten a tarp to cover the windows when it rained, and a few blankets for when it was a little cold, some books and pencils and lying here and there, and sometimes there’d be half a loaf of bread and some cherry jam about when he was planning not to go back home for awhile. He recently had gotten some cat food, too, and there were a couple of jars he may or may not have pissed in when he was too lazy to go outside. His mother probably wouldn’t love this place, it was kind of a mess, and she thought that he was out doing things with kids from school probably, maybe out on dates with girls or causing trouble with some boys his age, not talking to cats and occasionally jerking off to the thought of nothing in particular because he didn’t care about girls very much, not prodding at kangaroo carcasses he’s found, not shooting cans off an old shack. 

He sighed when he got to the derelict camper, the grit of sand on his bare back as he lay on the mattress, staring up through the only salvaged part of window in the ceiling of the vehicle, one of the weird cats sniffing his head. 

“Hullo John.” He crumbled up a piece of cherry cake in his hand and let the cat eat it before finishing the rest himself and dozing off slowly with a warm breeze passing through the space. 

* 

It wouldn’t have been an issue if he didn’t have to steal. But he did, he walked down the Parisian street which was still mostly asleep that early summer morning. He had two cherry tarts in hand, and he was headed toward the empty apartment in which he slept so he could eat them in peace. 

It was a two room place. Technically it didn’t belong to him since his parents were dead and didn’t pay for anything, but the landlord was some rich cousin or uncle or something to that effect and let him stay. It wasn’t a chateau, but it was enough for him. He set down the cherry tarts and looked out the window. It was warm even though it was really early, and the only people out were merchants and maids and children who’ve been sent to get bread for breakfast. 

He didn’t feel lonely, but it was strange to watch those people living their lives with their families and friends and whoever else and he just kept to the shadows, picking pockets for a living, not really interacting with anyone for fear of betrayal; for fear of getting caught. Most people in the neighbourhood knew who he was, the strange, skinny boy running through the alleys. Not many really knew his face. He never let anyone get a good look at him. He supposed if he did, he could get a job instead of slinking around the city and stealing people’s cigarettes, and he could by his own cherry tarts and cigarettes. Perhaps he could even work for the baker and get cherry tarts for free. The cherry ones were his favourite, after all. They were always what his father got for him when he was younger. Not ever apple or peach or anything else, it was always cherry. 

He left the window and got out the tarts he’d just stolen, and let out a happy little sigh at the taste of the sweet cherry filling. Maybe he’ll go out and talk to the baker today, ask for a job. It didn’t feel right to steal something so good without compensating for it, whether or not the other man knew anything of it. 

* 

“You know what boys? This ain’t so bad.” 

The sun had gone down and it was significantly cooler in the base now. Scout had put some clothes on, and they were all hanging around the kitchen; Engie had them waiting for a cherry pie. It was still mostly quiet; everyone looked at peace now that the worst of the heat was gone for the day. If you sat still you could hear the breathing of the nine men at their best, remembering their worst and everything in between that.

**Author's Note:**

> *Celsius, about 95 Fahrenheit


End file.
